The Kindest Love of All
by Skeexikx
Summary: Not telling the truth can be the most kindest love of all. TintinxHaddock.


Tintin has a secret that he hides from the Captain. A secret he knows better never to tell.

Don't own Tintin & CO., Moulinsart does.

Any and all grammatical, typographical and punctuation tomfoolery is the direct result of not looking this over for the one billionth time. I draw the line at 999,999 times.

Hope you enjoy, let me know if you do. Or don't, for that matter.

…

"And that's how not to catch a taxi in Havana, lad!" Archibald Haddock concluded with a self-deprecating laugh.

Tintin laughed as well, delighted with the story. It was pure Haddock, silly yet sweet.

They had begun indulging in a small ritual after making mad, passionate love. Instead of dozing securely in each other's arms, they had started exchanging anecdotes of their lives before each of them had met. It was easier this way as they had the time to devote to each other exclusively without being interrupted by both the mundane and/or pandemonium. They had found out more about each other than they had ever realized.

Tintin had told the older man not just about his adventures, which any one could read, but also about his life before he had become the world famous boy reporter he now was. The reasons that had led him to take the plunge, strike out on his own, seek out adventure, fight crime and solve mysteries.

Haddock told the lad about his own childhood, what took him to the sea, how he'd sailed around the world on various ships, the circumstances and opportunities that had made him become the captain of the Karaboudjan.

Tintin knew the man was a good man, earnest and just. But he also knew Haddock was not a saint, had experienced the world's secrets. The Captain had been quite the robust young buck back in his day and had not been shy about savoring the pleasures of back alley, red light district or house of ill repute. Haddock had coupled with many a prostitute in his time – both male and female.

But as the man had assured him, they had been for pleasure only, a release of lusty urges, indulged in for the moment and never looked back at.

Tintin had looked at his lover and then had nodded his head, assured the older man that he wasn't offended, after all - Tintin was his now and always would be.

There was no way he was ever going to let the man know that he knew exactly what Haddock meant.

Tintin had discovered sex in Russia when one of the guards had fondled him. Lost his virginity in the Congo. Was introduced to many wonders in Egypt, India and China. Coupled with a cowboy in America, a guard in Syldavia, a couple of the Scotsmen before going to the Black Isle (and didn't that kilt make it easy!). He learned to spread his legs in several different positions and also learned how to ease his own cock into willing ass. He preferred neither over the other, as both ways was nice and thrilling and left one feeling oh so good.

It was just sex. Nothing more. An added spice to his adventures, something to do when he wasn't being chased or hunting down clues or criminals. It had become just another aspect to his rollercoaster life - being shot at, chloroformed, knocked out, tied up, escaping, catching criminals and oh yeah – having sex if possible.

He didn't go seeking it. Sex wasn't something he had to have, coupling with anybody. But he had become adept at spotting those that were willing and if they intrigued him, answered a need, then he would come on to them or accept their advances and soon become one heaving, thrusting tangle in hotel room, closet, bathroom, woods.

His partners meant little, just a passing desire that was quickly eased, moved on from, replaced by some new attraction that caught his fancy. Tintin didn't spend time wondering if they remembered him. He vaguely recalled his various partners and only if it was somehow new.

The criminals that he dealt with never enticed him. They were criminals after all, to be put into jail, served up to justice.

No, sex to Tintin was just another aspect to his life, something that was fun, enjoyed in the moment yet no more and no less important than eating, sleeping, dressing, going about his day.

Until he met the Captain.

That's when it all changed.

He'd never had anyone worship him before. Let alone adored and loved him.

And he adored and loved his Captain way too much to let the man know that he wasn't Tintin's first. Though in reality, Haddock was Tintin's first. He hadn't lied to the Captain about that, not really. The gruff on the surface yet sweet underneath sailor was the first person Tintin had given his heart to. And soul. Those others didn't count. They'd just had his body, nothing more.

No – Tintin would never tell. He had no desire to be perfect, but he was well aware of how high in regard the man felt for him. Sometimes it was almost scary – to be loved so deeply. Standing in front of a firing squad was child's play compared to facing the intensity of the older man's depth of emotion.

As infuriating as it could be sometimes, to be thought of as practically a saint, all the same Tintin had no desire to have Haddock think less of him. He was perfectly content to have the man be irritated by his lesser faults – stubbornness, dogged determination, seeming lack of personal safety. But not this one.

It would hurt the man to know that Tintin had been a laviscous, sex crazed teen who hadn't given a thought as to who he was with. And he never wanted to cause the older man any heartbreak. He worshiped the Captain just as much.

Sometimes it was kinder to lie.

Fin.

**Author's note:**

So just how does one not catch a taxi in Havana? You'll have to ask the Captain for that one.


End file.
